Burning Desire

Children throughout the generations have been admonished by their parents not to play with matches. I was certainly no exception; only in my case, the warnings were totally ignored, and, if not for a particular event, God knows what havoc I would have wreaked.

Judging from the volumes of photographs my mother collected, and if modesty can be suspended for the sake of verisimilitude, I was a cute looking little kid, with big brown, innocent eyes. My mother dressed me in cute little duds—neat sailor suits with a whistle in the pocket, a houndstooth coat with brown cap, and knickers (yes knickers—we're talking mid 40s). I was also very quiet, and being an only child, was adept at creating my own amusements. My mother, grandmother, aunt, and cousin, Jimmy, all knew of my predilection for things aflame, but they pretty much treated it as a petty annoyance. All the other assorted distant family members, adults and neighbors thought "Bobby" was just a good little boy who "kept to himself." (Does that sound scarily familiar, Mr. Hinckley?)

I was fascinated by fire, and I must have tried to burn every form of matter available to a six-year-old in Charleston in 1946, from paper to grass to leaves to cloth to metal. I was disappointed by metal, which seemed to remain unaltered—except for copper, which gave off blue-green flames, at least. Wherever there was a fire, you would find me there staring hypnotically at it: a stove, a fireplace, the coals at a cookout, trash burning. In fact, my observation of a nine-year-old friend burning a pile of trash in his backyard precluded my ever experimenting with glass because of the unfortunate effect of his attempt to burn a bottle: it exploded with a loud pop, spraying glass everywhere, one piece hitting him just above the left eye.

I remember that he bled differently than I did. There was something like a small blog of grape jam on his eyebrow. It was not pouring down his face like the time I plunged headfirst into the sofa. This was very puzzling to me. Why did Al's blood have the same Cross and Blackwell consistency when I reached his age, or did it have something to do with eating too many sweets? It sounded like one of my mother's warnings come to fruition: "If you don't eating all those sweet things, your blood will turn to jam, you'll only be able to move with great difficulty, and if you cut yourself the ants will crawl inside you and eat you to death."

My favorite conflagratory pastimes were melting plastic soldiers and playing "streetcar." Streetcar was an adult-supervised activity (burning plastic soldiers wasn't) in which you took an old shoebox, but windows in the sides and an opening in the top, and then placed a candle (in its own melted wax) in the middle under the opening. You then tied a string to the front of the box and pulled it around the yard at night. Of course, I always managed to pull mine over rough terrain and fast enough so that the candle would tip over and the whole thing would go up in flames. "Bobby, don't pull it so roughly! See, I told you it would turn over. Hurry and re-light the candle. Boy, are you slow! Never mind, you're too late again. Stay away—it's burning up. What are you smiling at?"

Sometimes I would cut up the tissue paper from the shoebox and paste it on the windows like panes. This would cause it to flame up in no time. I finally went too far, loading up the streetcar with soldiers, which resulted in a molten mound of roaring plastic, and this activity, which I have retrospectively named "A Streetcar Named DeFire," was eventually terminated because "he seems to be enjoying it for the wrong reasons."

Undeterred, I simply found more civilized outlets for my obsession. Inspired by a storybook picture of a young pajama-clad boy carrying a candlestick to help him find his way around the house in the dark, I re-enacted the scene that night, shuffling in my slippers and Roy Rogers pajamas from my bedroom to the bathroom. This was really neat, I thought. I pretended I was Sherlock Holmes searching for clues in a haunted house. (This required a precocious imagination, given my Roy Rogers pajamas. I mean, even Roy wouldn't wear pajamas with little pictures of himself and Trigger all over them.) In the bathroom, I placed the candlestick on the windowsill.

Now comes the extremely stupid part of the story: Upon leaving the bathroom, I notice the shade starting to burn. I tried throwing some water on it but it didn't work. So I took the candlestick back to my bedroom, blew it out, and hid it and the matches under my bed. I then got under the covers and decided the best thing to do was to simply go to sleep. No, it doesn't sounds like a particularly sensible thing to me either, whenever I recount this story. I guess I preferred being burned alive rather than admitting that I'd been playing with matches again. That might be a fitting denouement for a fledgling pyromaniac.

I was saved by my cousin, Jimmy, who smelled the smoke and doused the flames with buckets of water. Of course, a great part of the bathroom was ruined. My mother really got mad about this one. She told me that this was the last straw, that she had called the police, and that I was to go back in my room and wait for them. For the first time, I was really scared as hell. I actually thought the police were coming. I envisioned a motorcycle coming; figured they wouldn't waste a whole squad car on a small entity like myself. I could hear the newsboy screaming the headlines: "Extra! Extra! Read all about it. Cops Nab Child Fire Fiend After Mother Squeals!"

After several bullet-sweating hours of imagining what terrible fate would befall me in Alcatraz Junior State Prison for the Criminally Spoiled, my mother admitted that she had not called the police, but that I would have to stay in my room (after it was thoroughly searched for matches) all of the next day. And this I did, while my mother trudged up and down the stairs for 24 hours bringing me food, ice cream, comic books, toys and other mixed messages. I would live to strike again.

My fire dabbling exploits resumed in about a week and continued uneventfully until one day, while playing by myself under a friend's house, I serendipitously came upon a book of matches. The ground beneath the house and most of the yard was covered with dead, dry grass. Discovering that I could not extinguish the initial flames, and recalling the unfortunate ramifications of my bathroom fire decision, I suddenly realized that besides admitting my guilt or just ignoring the dilemma, there was a third option: There was a family next door with three children. I could blame it on them. Even better, they looked like the kind of kids would get into mischief; they all had reddish hair and reckless and just had that sort of "I dare you to knock that chip off my shoulder" demeanor. My reputation among my mother's friends was, of course, pristine—she had never told them of my pyromaniacal leanings. I briefly cursed myself for not blaming the first fire on Al, or my cousin, Jimmy. Now I had the perfect plan.

And it was. I ran up the steps and, with an expression of feigned horror, informed the adults that the Gerbilhead kids had set the yard on fire. The fire department was summoned immediately, the fire was put out, the Gerbilhead children were accused, found guilty by their father, who was a strict disciplinarian, and I feel sure a terrible punishment was meted out. My mother asked me if I had done it and I, of course, denied it emphatically, underscoring that I had definitely learned my lesson in the charred bathroom escapade and that I was cured—hadn't touched a match since then. I always wondered if she really believed me.

The Gerbilhead kids never knew who I was or what I looked like. They only knew some weasely little low-life had framed them. Even so, I made an effort to avoid them. Actually this incident did finally cure me of my fascination with flames, because I didn't want to ever draw attention to myself again. In fact, since that time I have eschewed fire-related activities at all costs: 1) I turn down all invitations to cookouts; 2) I avoid smokers and did long before it was "in" to do so; 3) I do not enter rooms with fireplaces in use; 4) I have had unlit candles on my cake since my seventh birthday.

I also live in constant fear that the Gerbilheads will one day find me and release 43 years of pent-up rage upon my belatedly repentant soul. I will be in the check-out line in the Piggly Wiggly one day when one of the brothers will recognize me: "It's him, by God, it's him." I imagine he'll throw me up against the cash register (these Gerbilheads are huge people). "Sis, you call Billy and tell him he's caught; tell him to bring the rope. We've waited 43 years for this."

I mean, I have experienced a catharsis since then. But, no matter what they do, it would be no more than I deserve.

National Nirvana: The End of Politics

November 1998
National Nirvana: The End of Politics
By Bob Coskrey

I think Bill Clinton is getting what he deserves. He’s lied to his family, his friends, his advisors, his cabinet members, the Congress, his lawyers (although maybe he should get points for that), as well as to all of the citizens of this country. And as his lack of moral character becomes more and more obvious, as there is more disgust displayed by the general public, the legislators of both parties are joining in expressing their moral outrage. They are appalled at this ethical deviate’s behavior: philandering, lying, possibly illegal real estate deals, and fund-raising, abuse of power, obstruction of justice, and on and on. This man cannot be trusted by anyone. He’s plainly not fit to serve burgers and friends, much less this nation.

If hypocrisy emitted the odor of five day old decaying fish, we could all be, en masse, barfing into our TV trays. These people, these moralizing morons we call legislators, are all posturing, duplicitous, sleazebags.

Politics, unfortunately, attracts certain kinds of people with distinctive personality traits, just as other vocations do, only politics seems to attract the absolutely worst kinds, specifically, the megalomaniacal, narcissistic, power-hungry, shallow, tauras-defecating, mendacious, but often charming types, who in their worst manifestations are sociopaths like Clinton, who not only misuse their positions and the people they represent, but do so with an air of clinical indifference, even cheerfulness, at times, in our President’s case, because they are bereft of a conscience.

Now please don’t start yelling that you know or are related to this or that person who’s a politician of impeccable motives and goals. I can think of a few people like that myself. It’s easy to—I could list them in 10 seconds. In essence, there are not enough of these nice guys to make a difference.

Some optimistic people say these insidious incumbents are just formerly honest citizens who are corrupted after they dive into the cesspool of politics. This is the al, not the reel, world. Jimmy Stewart is dead and there won’t be any more of Mr. Smith going to Washington—or Columbia, for that matter.

I think these people have a personality disorder, whose symptoms I have already described and the mental health professionals need to make room for it in their manual of diagnoses: Politicopathic Personality Disorder. You usually start noticing these people in high school. They are the one who run for Student Council and Class Officers.

They want total power and control, as well as all the attention. They do anything to achieve power, and even more to maintain it, behavior that expands to more extraordinary, sometimes illegal levels in their adult lives. In fact, there will come a post-scholastic time when these “movers and shakers” will stand at a vast precipice and decide whether to leap into the immediately gratifying world of crime for the long term rewarding vocation of politics, the world of legitimate crime. Some of the more gifted choose both.

And why people can’t see through some of these people totally baffles me. I hate to say it, but some of us must not be too bright—and I’m indulging in self-criticism by saying this, because I’ve voted for some of them myself on occasion.

Just look at the political commercials. They must really think we’re stumbling around with drool-baskets hanging around our necks. They are extremely insulting—even to those of us with drool-buckets.

A Yuppy looking guy in a rolled-up long sleeve white Oxford cloth shirt, with the tie pulled loose, walking down a dock with his son being carried on his shoulders, and holding his daughter’s hand, while his fashionably coiffed wife walks closely beside him, gazing adoringly up at him, and their faithful Black Labrador Retriever, with a red bandana tied around its neck, gallops loyally alongside.

Of course, in these parts, you will hear a God-like voice-over intoning the victory-clenching buzzwords of “Conservative,” “family values,” “Christian,” and “no taxes,” while in other sections of the country the words will differ depending on the majority of the voters’ political inclinations (see “polling” later in this article).

I don’t want to gloss over the importance of the shirt in the commercial being white and being long sleeved and rolled up, since the former denotes purity and the later along with the tie being askew, gives us the undeniable message that this man is at work for his fortunate constituents twenty-four hours a day. But he, just the same, finds time to rush home to be with his beloved family for brief moments. He has no time to change clothes, because like a courageous “Minuteman,” he must be ready to dash back to his undersized office to protect his innocent constituents from the onslaught of all that is evil.

PUH-LEEZE! Why should we believe that these disreputable dirtballs treat their families any differently than they do anyone else? Pure, unadulterated mythology. I will, however, concede that some good may actually result—accidentally—from these ads, since they do, after all, force these politicopaths to spend at least the time it took to pose for the shot, with their families (maybe even an hour at time, if there were multiple takes), before they rushed off to some self-serving, power aggrandizing event, or cigar catalyzed liaison.

Then, of course, there’s the “negative campaigning,” multi-media mudslinging. The conservative’s a “racist,” the liberal played golf with Clinton (they’re more likely to play with O.J. now).

I assume they’re all creeps anyway, so from my perspective, this is wasted air time.

Ideally, we’d like to hear meaningful platforms of plans and ideas, noteworthy accomplishments, but then all this rough-hewn forthrightness is stained with the patina of fakery, so unless we’re addicted to pointless rhetoric, we’re just wasting our time, as well as the airwaves.

Although these Shock-Jerk charlatans of the media love to pontificate electronically, they still, incredibly enough, enjoy going out and “working the crowds,” “pressing the flesh” (Clinton, of course, has evolved beyond most in this latter practice), grasping ever hand in site, while beaming beatifically. They stand outside plants and inside malls shaking hands with total strangers (and destined to remain so post election day), and mouthing insincere compliments and platitudes: “What a beautiful child,” “I will cut your taxes,” “I am for family values,” “I will reduce welfare,” I am pro-choice. Catholic are you? I mean, I’m pro-life, my mistake,” “I’m for the working man,” “I want to put God back into our schools. Oh, you believe in a separation of church and state? Well, so do I. I was speaking figuratively, you know, like putting the fear of God back into the schools, but not religion itself—no sire, strict separation, that’s where I stand. See ya at the polls.”

Again, this is a big waste of time for us voters, not to mention the fact that I’m a little squeamish about actually touching these people’s hands, considering where they’ve been. What they need is just a blanket one-size-fits-all platform. “I am for whatever will get me elected, and once in office I will be for whatever keeps me there. This may or may not benefit you, but I can assure you my opponent feels exactly the same way, so you might as well vote for me since at least, for this ‘brief shining moment,’ I was honest with you.”

God Bless America!

One other thing that these special people do truly astounds me: Kissing babies. But even more amazing is the fact that the babies’ parents let this grisly practice happen. Knowing that most of these libido-lubricated lotharios, like our lecherous leader, are humping and groping anything with a pulse rate, with the only criterion being “to stay within the species,” why would anyone allow their lips to touch those of innocent, healthy children.

It appears that we voters, in cooperating, admiring, even apotheosizing these demented demigods, may actually be enablers who are almost as sick as they are.

With the ascendance of the importance of polling in the political system, the politicopaths simply have one more weapon to add to their arsenal of treachery. Now all anyone will need to assure him or herself victory is access to an accurate polling organization. You simply poll everybody in your voting district, find out what their opinions are about all the issues and then that becomes your can’t-lose platform. Every few months or so, and again at election time, you take your polls again. You’re married to your incumbency, till term limitation do you part.

What’s so fascinating, and at the same time infuriating, about these politicopaths is that, although some of them are clever enough to be convincing and believable, most of them are so very transparently disingenuous and smarmy as for example, our President with his tears-on-command and well rehearsed lip-biting. Closer to home is our Havolinish governor, whom we could very easily picture drawling with a well-oiled smile, “What do I need to do to have your drive this car off the lot today?”

The really bad news is if I’m correct in my theory that these guys do have politicopathic personality disorders, there’s not much that can be changed behaviorally, since personality disorders don’t respond well to treatment.

Therefore, I am making the following recommendation:

Anyone wanting to run for office must have a psychological evaluation. Also, all currently elected office holders will have one. If my theory is correct—and I’m very confident that it is—the following could be done:

A. Appoint independent counsels to investigate all of them (city, county, state, and federal, for the purpose of disclosing everything these people have done that’s immoral or illegal since their 21st birthday). As a result, I predict the following consequences: 1) Mass resignations, withdrawals from races, and no filings for races; 2) All tax lawyers will become multimillionaires and have more business than they can possibly handle; 3) There will be a national blackout caused by dry cleaners working overtime to remove stains from clothing.

B. Get rid of any incumbents who are attorneys and make that profession a disqualification for running for elected office.

(A and B will result in virtually no one left in office.)

C. All elected officials are replaced by computers which can be programmed periodically with local, state and nation polling results and governmental decisions can simply be made based on how the majority of the people feel about the issues. No more costly, boring elections. The entire job of seeing that governments operate can be accomplished by a bunch of computer nerds, who despite being geeky and, socially maladjusted, are for the most part, totally committed (to computers) un-controlling and non-abusing people (I have done research; I saw “Revenge of the Nerds” I, II, and III). Maybe we could appoint someone like Bill Gates as the Chief Computercrat with Al Gore as the Vice Programmer, since he has always bragged about knowing so much about technology, not to mention that he actually behaves like a computer anyway. Never mind. I forgot he’s an attorney.

Gates can do it all himself. Hail to the Geek!